


What if You Peaked Early

by AmyTheEleventh



Series: Does He Know The Way I Worship [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark!Matt, Dark!Matt being touchy and not respecting boundaries, Light Angst, M/M, Some Fluff, gr8, like at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 18:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7518958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyTheEleventh/pseuds/AmyTheEleventh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy Nelson has never been a religious man; his mother dragged him to Mass as a child, and like all good children he sat quietly and listened to the priest and bowed his head in prayer. But from a young age, he knew within himself that he’d need more. Careful words and an old book didn’t do much for his faith.</p>
<p>But tonight, Foggy prays. He prays as his knees hit the pavement and blood gushes from wounds in his abdomen. He prays that Karen has already run far, far away to somewhere safe and won’t bother trying to come back and be a hero. Foggy prays as he dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What if You Peaked Early

**Author's Note:**

> General Disclaimer #1: I own nothing. Not Marvel, not Daredevil, not the titles to the story/series. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
> 
> General Disclaimer #2: Not beta'd. All mistakes are, unfortunately, my own. 
> 
> General Disclaimer #3: Refer to number 2. It's 4 AM. No one's up to beta this, anyway. 
> 
> On with the show.

Foggy Nelson has never been a religious man; his mother dragged him to Mass as a child, and like all good children he sat quietly and listened to the priest and bowed his head in prayer. But from a young age, he knew within himself that he’d need  _ more _ . Careful words and an old book didn’t do much for his faith.

But tonight, Foggy prays. He prays as his knees hit the pavement and blood gushes from wounds in his abdomen. He prays that Karen has already run far, far away to somewhere safe and won’t bother trying to come back and be a hero. Foggy prays as he dies. 

At least, he thinks he’s dying. He’s losing blood so quickly, and he’s sure he’s not far from passing out. He doesn’t even have enough strength to look his murderer in the eye before he says goodbye to the world. But then something miraculous happens. 

An angel appears. 

But… But it can’t be. Can it? Foggy’s not sure. Angels wear white, don’t they? Maybe his mind is playing tricks on him. Foggy doesn’t know of any angels who have ever growled, or laughed maniacally while engaging in a fist fight. Angels don’t fight. Angels don’t smile at the sound of cracking bones under their grip or shiver in pleasure as a human takes their final breath. 

Angels don’t kill. 

And suddenly, it’s quiet. But only for a moment. “Oh, darling.” That has to be an angel, Foggy thinks. The fingers under his chin are light and gentle, nudging Foggy’s head up. Foggy can’t make sense of the face, it’s too dark in this alley to even make out a general shape. And before Foggy can force himself to say a single word, the touch under his chin is gone with the angel it belongs to. The dead silence is replaced by sirens and the nosy, worried chatter of residents. Foggy blacks out before the EMTs can get to him.

-

“Foggy!?” Karen says frantically, bursting into Foggy’s room. She’s still in the same clothes she was wearing last night. Foggy instantly feels bad. She probably didn’t even go home. “God, Foggy- I shouldn’t have left you there- oh my God, you could have died-” 

“If I had died it would have been because of the bullet wounds in my side,” Foggy points out, and even though he’s still in a bit of pain, he keeps his lighthearted demeanor. He’s alive and they’ve already patched him up. That’s enough for him. 

“I could have done something…” But Foggy doesn’t want to hear it. 

“I’m glad you ran,” he tells her. “If you had stayed to protect me, you would have died, too, and then we’d both be dead and mourning each other as we sat at our own graves as ghosts.” 

“This is serious, Foggy!” 

“Is it?” He asks. Karen’s a nervous wreck, Foggy can tell that much. But he’s fine, he’s alive, and right now he wants to focus on calming his friend down. “Because as of right now, I’m still breathing, with minimal pain. We’re both still alive, and as far as I know both of our homes and our law practice haven’t burned to the ground. We’ll probably get all our bills paid this month. Like… I say we’re good. And I assure you, I’m going to be back in the office the day after I’m released. This is only a mild inconvenience.” And Karen just sighs. She’s too tired to argue. 

Foggy doesn’t mention the angel. 

-

Foggy’s released just a couple days later, with strict orders from the doctor to allow the stitches to heal. 

“No strenuous physical exertion,” she says pointedly, looking back and forth between Karen and Foggy, and Foggy is already laughing by the time he registers Karen’s confused look. 

“Don’t worry,” he says jovially. “The hardest thing I do these days is open a bag of chips.” Karen snorts, but he can tell she’s laughing on the inside. He’s hilarious, of course. 

-

True to form, Foggy gets dressed and goes to work not even a full twenty four hours after being discharged, still his normal, cheery self. But Karen can tell that he is still in pain.

“You need to  _ heal _ ,” she says seriously. “There’s no reason for you to be sitting at your desk all down hunched over your laptop. Take your meds. Lay on the couch. Watch movies. Let your fucking wounds heal.” 

“You’re no fun, you know that?” But he does as he’s told. Karen’s only looking out for him. Besides, a day or two or five in his quiet, cozy apartment might be nice. Just some time to himself to catch up on reading, or learn how to bake his grandma’s famous oatmeal raisin cookies that somehow always come out soft and chewy and moist.  And for the first whole day, he does just that. It’s nice. He feels relaxed. He even thinks about adopting a dog. 

When he’s awoken by a soft creak around ten on night two, though, he’s suddenly wishing very intensely that he had a dog. One that barks at intruders and unwelcomed sounds. Foggy sits up, leaning against the arm of the couch. Not moving. Just listening. He shakes his head after a moment. This has to be part of the anxiety the doctor told him about. PTSD. He lives in a third floor apartment and hasn’t left his home in almost two full days. No one’s here. No one’s here. 

-

Foggy may be naive at times, but he’s not stupid. Someone had to have been in his apartment last night. Maybe someone who hadn’t just been shot wouldn’t have noticed how the remote control was now a full six inches away from where it was left last night, or how the lock on the window over the couch was undone, but Foggy notices. He notices and it’s enough to make him paranoid. He tries to do what the doctor told him to do, meditate and breathe and take his medication, but nothing is helping. It’s not a feeling, Foggy realizes. It’s an instinct. 

-

Foggy doesn’t bother telling Karen. It’s just his brain playing tricks on him, there’s no real danger here. All he does is step carefully around his apartment, checking every closet and corner and even his bathtub for anything suspicious. But there’s nothing. It’s just Foggy, alone in his house, anxiety clouding his brain while the percocet numbs the pain out. He decides on a nap. It’s snowing outside again, and it’s gray and overcast and silent on top of that; Foggy can’t think of better napping conditions. So he pops another pain pill right on schedule after he eats lunch and settles down into bed. He dragged two more comforters out of the closet just for this, so he can feel like he’s floating on a cloud while the medication sings him a silent lullaby and spreads through his bloodstream. This is good, he thinks absently. 

-

“Don’t move, darling.” Foggy smiles. He’s dreaming, he has to be. That’s the voice of his angel. His angel with hands that are soft yet ragged, and Foggy only knows this because the angel rests his hand on his cheek and strokes along the bone gently. Foggy slurs out something that sounds like a question, but the angel must understand anyway. “Just to check on you. I’ll be back soon. When you’re coherent.” And Foggy smiles, dream-him not even bothering to open his eyes as he mumbles out a small “Okay.” 

-

When Foggy awakes, he feels… He feels good. He’s cozy. Not in much pain. Warm even though there’s a slight chill in the air. He could have sworn he switched his heater on before he got into bed- 

Oh. 

_ Oh _ . 

Because the point of central heating is to keep air inside. And that becomes slightly more difficult when your bedroom window is wide open. 

-

Foggy doesn’t have another “dream” after that. In fact, dreams for the next two weeks are nonexistent. He sleeps like a baby. Mostly because he triple checks all his windows before he goes to bed now.

But at the end of that two weeks, Foggy decides that he’s had enough. He’s laid low in his apartment and contented himself with movie marathons and Karen’s homemade dinners for as long as he could. And even though Karen protests, he puts on his suit and tie and greets her bright and early Monday morning with two cups of coffee and a togo bag in hand.

“It’s Mr. Nelson’s first day back at work!” He exclaims excitedly. “Thought we could celebrate with a hot breakfast before we opened ourselves to the whims of the public.” And Karen looks like she wants to argue, but Foggy knows she can’t ever turn down free food or coffee. No wonder they’re best friends. 

“Well, welcome back, Mr. Nelson,” she says with a smile, clearing a spot on her desk so Foggy can pull up a chair and they can eat together. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like I got shot,”  Foggy says without missing a beat. “In other words, great. And dying to take a big bite out of this bagel. Eat up.” 

It only takes a few hours for Foggy to realize that being back at work makes him feel way better. He’s  _ doing  _ something. More importantly, he has something to keep his mind busy. He was starting to get cabin fever. 

“How about we close up early today?” Karen suggests a couple hours after lunch. “We can grab an early dinner, catch a movie…” And get home before dark. She doesn’t have to say it, but they both know it’s there. 

“Sounds good to me,” Foggy says. “Why don’t we go now? No point in sticking around this old dump.” Karen laughs and Foggy feels at ease again. Things feel normal. 

-

It feels good to go out again, Foggy decides. He hates being cooped up, he’s  _ always  _ hated it, and he’s never letting Karen talk him into something so awful ever again. He belongs in the outside world, surrounded by people and strange noises and endless adventure. Not stuck on his couch, moping and paranoid.

Which is why he’s so sad to see their night end, still laughing as he sees Karen into a cab. “Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night?” She asks, pulling out the sweetest puppy dog face, and Foggy is almost tempted to say yes. 

“I’ll take a raincheck, my dear,” he says. “Should really get home and get a good night’s rest. We do have work bright and early tomorrow morning… Get home safe, Karen.” 

“You, too,” she says. “Call yourself a cab, alright? And call me when you get home.” 

“Yes, mom,” Foggy says affectionately. “Good night.” And he watches as the car speeds off, relieved in the fact that he knows she’ll get home safely. He knows he should call a cab, but… He just wants to walk. Enjoy the world for a little bit. He’s lived in Hell’s Kitchen all his life and that shooting was the first bad thing the city has done to him. He still trusts this place. 

But still. Foggy’s not stupid. As much as he wants to enjoy his walk, he’s on hyperalert heading home, eyes darting to every dark corner and every little noise. 

It's with a deep sigh of relief that he arrives at his apartment, taking the steps slowly, one at a time. There's something oddly thrilling about getting home unscathed. He hopes he's not like this forever. 

“Keys…” Foggy mumbles, and he's reaching into his bag, pushing aside gum wrappers and file folders in search for his key chain. “Keys, keys, keys…” 

“Hello, darling.” Foggy freezes at his door as a hand falls on his waist. He recognizes that voice. That’s the voice of the angel in his dream. The voice of the angel that saved him. 

“You,” Foggy gasps quietly. “The night I was shot- you- _ An angel _ -” He’s cut off by a quiet, musical laugh, and Foggy tries not to immediately melt into the body pressing against his back.

“Yes,” the angel says sweetly. “I’m so very happy you’re recovering well. I’m sorry if I upset you after my last visit… I heard your heart halfway across town once you finally woke up. I’ll make sure to close your window next time.” The window. Somewhere deep inside of his brain, there’s a voice screaming for Foggy to be terrified. Something isn’t sitting right. This man may be his savior, but that doesn’t change the fact that Foggy watched him kill a man with his bare hands. But if it was to save him… 

“Thank you,” Foggy says softly, because with his mind racing that’s all he can think to say. He jumps slightly when he feels lips on the back of his neck. He wonders vaguely if his angel is committing some sort of sin. 

“It was my pleasure,” he purrs. Foggy turns his head, but the angel is just out of his line of vision. There’s a gentle pressure on his hips for a moment. “Sleep well, darling.” And then the touch, along with the angel, is gone.

-

He lasts all of ten minutes before he tells Karen at work the next morning.

Or rather, she forces it out of him. Apparently he looked far too dazed and stupid for his own good.

“An angel?” she asks incredulously. “ _ Really _ ?” 

“I know it sounds -  _ ridiculous _ and whimsical and whatever, but - I don’t know,” Foggy mutters, shaking his head a bit. “I guess he wasn’t an actual angel, like, that’s stupid, okay, but the only other - beings, I guess, I’ve seen move like that are the Avengers. And that sure as hell wasn’t Captain America, Karen.” 

“But an  _ angel _ , Fog-” 

“It’s ridiculous,” Foggy repeats. “I know. But… I could have died that night Karen… He saved my life.” Foggy’s shaking his head again. He hates how hero-worship-y he sounds right now. But he doesn’t know what else to say. 

“And he… He came to your apartment last night?” Karen specifies, and if Foggy was paying more attention, he’d recognize her concern. 

“Yeah.” 

“And… he’s been there before? While you were sleeping?” 

“Yes,” he reiterates, slightly annoyed for no reason. Karen doesn’t say anything for a moment, and that catches his attention. He looks up from his laptop to see her watching him steadily. “What?” 

“You… You haven’t seen the paper from that morning after, have you?” It’s an odd question, but… 

“No,” Foggy says, eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t have it delivered anymore. Why? Did they write about the shooting?” 

“Oh, they wrote about… Something,” Karen says. She stands up and crosses the room, starts picking through a pile of newspapers on the table near the kitchenette. Foggy watches her curiously, cocks his head at the small little gasp she makes when she finally finds what she’s looking for. 

“Here,” she says, turning back around. “You made the paper, kid.” Foggy sees the headline as soon as she stretches out her arm to hand it to him. His blood runs cold. 

-

**_THE DEVIL OF HELL’S KITCHEN STRIKES AGAIN_ **

_ What could have been a fatal gang-related shooting early Tuesday morning was stopped in its tracks by the man many are claiming to be the devil himself… After almost a year of radio silence… According to witness reports, shots broke out about one AM… Bodies found with injuries ranging from broken necks to evisceration… One civilian casualty, Franklin Nelson, 28, taken to Metro-General Hospital where he is said to be in serious but stable condition…  _

-

Last year was chaos. Foggy remembers every moment of those months, each second seared into his brain with a vivid intensity. Opening his practice. Meeting Karen. Union Allied. Taking down Wilson Fisk. Biggest case of his life. Death after death after death after death. There's no way him or Karen should have made it out alive. 

But they did. And Foggy always refused to acknowledge it, but he knows exactly how and exactly why. Because for every law he abided by, every protocol he followed; every dangerous decision and stupid action: there was always someone there; on their side but right out of Foggy’s line of sight, like a word he knows but can't think of even as it lingers on the tip of his tongue. Never speaking, never letting himself be seen. 

But his presence was known. He made sure of that. For months, every morning there was a new body; a new  _ pile _ of bodies, all in varying states of grotesqueness: snapped necks, fractured skulls, punctured eyeballs, stab wounds so deep the blade cut through the back of the heart and reappeared in the chest. Hell’s Kitchen was in a panic, and the killings even sent Fisk into a frenzy. The Devil showed no mercy. 

Until Foggy. 

-

Foggy feels numb on his walk home. Even with Karen's offer (“Why don't you stay with me tonight?” “I just… I need some alone time. I'll call you when I get in.”), he just didn't feel like there was any way to feel safe right now. He wanted to be home; in his bed, all his doors and windows locked tight. Not that something as simple as a locked window has ever deterred a man like this, the Devil himself. But maybe he’ll extend just enough kindness to Foggy to get the message. 

Foggy’s heart speeds up the moment he gets to his front door; if he could just get his hand to stop shaking, get inside- 

“Hello again, beautiful.” Foggy freezes. He hates how his body responds to that voice so immediately, how he has to fight the urge to lean back and be held when he feels someone he once worshipped press against his back, hands coming to rest at his hips like last time. “How dearly I’ve missed you-” 

“Let go of me,” Foggy says once his head clears. The man behind him makes a noise of confusion, but he tightens his grip. It makes Foggy’s blood boil. 

“Darling-” 

“ _ Now _ .” And the heat of another person is gone as quickly as it appeared. Foggy whips around, ready to start screaming if his angel -  _ The Devil _ , he reminds himself.  _ The literal Devil of Hell’s Kitchen _ \- has disappeared again. Quite the opposite: Foggy’s shocked to finally be face to face with the man, so much larger and intimidating than he imagined, even though Foggy’s been back to chest with the man on more occasion than one. “I- God damn it, I know who you are.” Foggy’s thoughts are gone. He doesn’t know where he was going with this or what he was even going to say. 

“I imagine,” the man answers, and there’s a confident smirk on his face. Foggy wishes he could see his eyes under that helmet. “I have quite a reputation in this city.” 

“The reputation of a murderer,” Foggy bites out. “You’re not-” But he cuts off.  _ You’re not who I thought you were _ , he wants to say. His savior, his angel, the man who saved his life is the same man who has taken many. “... I thought you were an angel.” 

“Lucifer was once an angel as well.” 

“You've  _ killed  _ people - your body count is in the  _ hundreds _ -” 

“Only the bad people,” The Devil softly interjects. “The ones working for Fisk, the ones out to hurt others - the ones out to hurt  _ you _ .” 

“What makes me so special?” Foggy is fuming. Why him? Why now?

“Don’t make an old sinner confess all his atrocities.” The Devil sounds almost pained. Foggy wonders if he’s ever expressed any sort of remorse before now.

“I won’t,” Foggy mutters. “I don’t care enough to know. Leave me alone.” 

“Darling-” 

“Not another word,” Foggy growls. “You can’t kill all of these men and then turn around with blood still on your hands and expect me to come running into your arms because you saved me; you’re a lunatic! Why should I ever feel safe around you?!” The Devil makes the saddest little noise then, and Foggy almost breaks. Almost. 

“I would never hurt you,” he says solemnly, but it still sounds sad. “I only- I work so hard not to hurt innocent people-”   
  
“Prove it then,” Foggy cuts in. “Leave. Me. Alone.” And with that Foggy whips around, forcing his key into its lock and then slamming the door behind him once he’s in, letting the deadbolt echo between him and the Devil right outside of his door.

**Author's Note:**

> It feels good to write again. I've been on a Dark!Matt binge lately tbh. I'll probably make something out of this and loosely follow the same story line throughout. 
> 
> Story title and series title taken from Fall Out Boy's "Headfirst Slide Into Cooperstown on a Bad Bet". 10/10 would recommend. Actually, 10/10 would recommend the entirety of Folie a Deux.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Much love to you if you made it this far.


End file.
